We live on a crossroads, C________ton Corner, as it is unofficially known. Our neighbor for whom it is named passed away earlier this month. At the end of his life, he lived out of his purple truck, which he parked in front of the large barn across the street.
The barn looms over the corner. White and green, I spotted it from the air on my last plane trip. As the highest point in our hollow, it has a lightening system that regularly conducts strikes into the ground. Inside? We’ve heard stories of immaculate oak woodwork. “It was restored by a make up heiress who summered here,” the neighbors say. Revlon? Avon? They never remember.
I’ll admit, I’ve peeked through the open side door. An antique sleigh collection, an enormous copper eagle, a wooden boat, they’ve told us. Akin to a cave of wonders. I’ve seen a carved path through their collections, but never the treasures inside. The roadside is scattered with trinkets. Antique washing machine $40, weathered teddy bear $5, a faded framed Blink82 poster $25. The yard shelters a handful of decaying cars, and a pirate ship serves as a shelter for 22 cats. A couple guys have made offers on the Jeep since we’ve lived here, but it continues to sit. A throne for the orange Mainecoon mix.
These neighbors have been fixtures in the neighborhood since the 80s. He used to own our house, the barn, and another parcel. She tended to the horses, and then they stuck together, clinging to the barn when the other parcels sold. Their names are the same as my parents’ names. She even has the same birthday and Aquarian attitude as my mother. These parallels have felt important in making this place our home.
Over the decades, they’ve fostered stories on the corner. Neighbors still race through C_______ton Corner, squealing their tires, sometimes honking horns, dredging up old feuds and stories of his traffic abatement strategies. Coal dust and nails, he advised us. Others neighbors tell us of open houses during the holiday season. The thirty foot bar (now gone) served drinks, and he would host tours of the green and red painted rooms dressed in period clothing. They look at us expectantly when they tell us this, and we blankly smile back, pretending we missed the hint.
They’ve been good neighbors to us in these last two years. Probably, the state of the barn partially contributed to us being able to afford this house, and for that I am grateful. She reports on suspicious activity and chases foxes away from our chicken coop. Yelling at drivers that crush my plantings, she cautions them not to mess with me. I appreciate her adding my wrath to the identity of the corner. He told us stories of the house. Details we would never know without his history here. I have thought of them as guardians, of life, of history.
The other day, we were walking by, Zak, Yara, me, the dogs, and she pointed out a butterfly that hadn’t left her alone all day. “Maybe it’s him,” I offered, and she told me of the all feathers she’s collected since he passed. Messages he’s left for her, telling her he’s still around.
I wonder now if he continues his role of guardian. Has he joined the watch of the shadow on the porch? Will he walk through our halls, confusing the living of his timeframe in his period clothes? “Is that Johannes Englehart?” The name signed on the wall. “No, no, that’s T__ C_____ton, you know, the guy the corner is named for. He’s the guy that discovered the signature.”
I started writing this to contemplate the ephemeral pond behind the house. A story for another time. A story he shared with us.
